


The Sheriff's Star

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Bartender Rick, Blow Jobs, M/M, OR IS HE, Ranger Daryl, Semi-Public Sex, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Ranger Daryl Dixon had absolutely no intention of staying long in this little town in the middle of nowhere. He's simply here to resupply. It's just his luck the general store is already closed for the night. Fortunately, the only bar in town is still open and the blue-eyed bartender may have more to offer besides some excellent pre-apocalypse whiskey.





	1. Let's drink to new friendships

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very vaguely inspired by the ending of the comic series, but knowing it isn't required at all to understand what's going on. To establish some basics and hopefully make everything clear: the events of this story take place about ten years after the breakout. Daryl never met Rick or the Atlanta group. Obviously, Rick and his kids, as well as some other characters, are still alive, they eventually found their way to Alexandria and settled there. Things such as the war with the Saviors or the Whisperers never happened in this world, but they will be briefly addressed in further installments of this story.
> 
> Or, in other words: this is yet another vaguely plotty excuse for porn.
> 
> (Also, apologies for starting yet another story while the others are in progress. I have so many ideas simultaneously, I simply can't not write many things at the same time. Problem is, I crave validation, so I post stuff to get comments and all so I can continue writing...)

The bar’s name is The Sheriff’s Star and it’s themed cheesiness after a saloon in all of it's western-inspired cheesiness. It’s typically dimly-lit, like any bar ever since the beginning of time, and it smells vaguely of something pleasant, like sandalwood or cedar, or maybe some other shit entirely. There’s an old jukebox in the corner playing a barely-recognizable tune that sounds like something from a cowboy movie. It’s also blissfully empty save for the bartender, which works well for Daryl Dixon. He hasn’t come here to interact with people, after all.

“Another beer?” The bartender asks, motioning to Daryl’s empty tankard. 

He’s a man in his forties, curly-haired and blue-eyed, with a graying beard and wrinkles around his eyes, laughter lines. He’s about Daryl’s height and of slightly leaner build, though he still looks strong and capable like anyone who’s survived this long. And pretty. He’s so fucking pretty. Daryl knows men are supposed to be handsome or some shit, but he can’t help how his mind immediately labels the bartender as a pretty guy. It’s the eyes, he thinks, sky-blue and framed with dark eyelashes. Or the full pink lips. Or maybe it’s that smile, friendly and filled with warmth when he regards Daryl like they’ve known each other for years. Like they’re not total strangers who met by chance because Daryl ran out of first aid supplies and this peaceful little town off the usual trade routes was the closest place he could find to resupply.

“Yeah, ‘less you got whiskey hidden somewhere,” Daryl says lazily. The beer is good here, apparently a local brew, much better than the stale crap he’d usually find out there on the road. But he wouldn’t mind something stronger for a change. It’s been a while since he was able to really relax somewhere for a bit, and since the general store’s closed for the night, Daryl’s in no hurry to leave in a while yet.

“Actually, I do have some whiskey hidden hereabout. Genuine, pre-Trials stuff,” the bartender replies, his smile turning slightly crooked. Wicked. Alight with something like mischief. “Wouldn’t offer it to just anyone. But you, sir, you’re a Ranger, ain’t ya?”

“Huh,” Daryl says, somewhat impressed. In the old world, there was a stereotype about insightful bartenders, but he didn’t expect to find one so sharp in a town in the middle of nowhere. “How’d ya guess?”

“Crossbow’s sort of a giveaway,” the bartender points out. “Not many people walkin’ around with such advanced weapons anymore, not ‘round here at least. Plus, you’re clearly not local. Way you talk, you must be a Southerner, right?”

“Takes one to know one,” Daryl notes, because he has noticed the bartender’s thick accent, middle-class unlike his own backwoods drawl. Still, it’s familiar, the way the man talks, and Daryl hasn’t met a fellow Southerner in, fuck, at least three years; his hunting usually takes him north, to the Boston area and even further. If the old state markers were to be believed, he’d even been to Connecticut on one notable occasion, following a criminal along the Appalachian Trail on Judge Hawthorne’s direct orders. This little town is the southernmost location he’s ventured to in as long as he can remember and, woah, he didn’t even realize he was missing his home state of Georgia until now, when he accidentally stumbled upon someone who might originate from there as well.

The bartender laughs softly. He’s got a pleasant, rumbling kind of laughter, coming from a place deep in his chest. Daryl wonders if there’s a single thing about this man which isn’t attractive in a way that appeals to him specifically. He doesn’t have a type - he’s never been interested enough in romance and shit to actually develop a type, and anyway, with his face, he couldn’t afford to be very picky - but if he had, he’s sure the bartender would be it. 

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout being a Ranger, but I’m certainly a Southerner. King’s County, Georgia, born and raised,” the man admits, his warm voice laced with amusement. “Name’s Rick,” he adds, holding out a hand which Daryl accepts in a firm handshake, marveling internally at how the man’s palm feels so gentle against his own. He tries hard to suppress the arising fantasy of bold, calloused hands on other parts of his body. He doesn’t need that now, though he makes sure to put the impromptu thoughts aside for later. They’re gonna be really useful out on the trail, during one of those calm, lonely nights by the campfire.

“Daryl Dixon,” he introduces himself, hoping his voice sounds relatively normal and not as breathless as he thinks it might be.

“So, Ranger Dixon,” the bartender says in a tone that’s teasing, but not mocking. Like they’re friends. Or like he’s flirting, which - well, that’s nothing but wishful thinking.

“How about I bring out the whiskey and in return, you tell me about your adventures out in the wastes?”

“What, high tales are yer currency now? Got tired of New Dollars ‘round here?” Daryl asks, rising an eyebrow. He finds it hard to believe. Up north, people have already started literally fighting each other for the new money. He’s killed bandits who were foolish enough to try and rob _ him _of his hard-earned paper bills he couldn't care less about. It’s all quite like the good old times. Some things never change.

“Sure, I’ll take your tales over money any time,” Rick replies, shrugging. “Ain’t like I need coin. We don’t get much trade here in Alexandria, and whatever I need, I can get through goods or service exchange. We don’t use newlars around here, not even when we need to be dealing with other communities.”

Daryl chuckles and shakes his head. “What an idyllic life,” he says. 

The bartender smiles fondly. “Well, yeah,” he agrees, “we have it good here. No small part of it's thanks to you, to all the people like you. You risk your lives out there so that places like Alexandria can be safe for us settlers. Least I can do is offer you free drinks, man.”

Daryl licks his lips. He can think of at least a few other things Rick could offer that he wouldn’t say no to, but he wills those thoughts away. He knows from bitter experience that a few moments of physical pleasure aren’t worth the risk of rejection. And he doubts he’s got much of a chance. Rick doesn’t look like he’d be into what Daryl has. He looks like a ladies man, a fucking heartthrob. He’s probably not even single, Daryl’s sure there’s a beautiful wife and a bunch of blue-eyed kids waiting for the man at home. It’s better to have him as an acquaintance, a friendly face in this corner of the world, than to ruin everything with unwanted advances. 

It’s been a long time since Daryl considered making friends with anyone. It’s kind of refreshing, actually. Makes him feel like a real person, not just a ghost of an ancient civilization, chasing other ghosts across roadless wastelands.

“Here,” Rick says and slides an ice-filled glass to Daryl, which he then pours whiskey into. The bottle looks like it’s seen better days, the label is faded and slightly dirty, but the scent that hits Daryl’s nostrils is sharp and smoky. It smells better than anything he’d drank since Before, including clear, filtered water.

“‘s really pre-Trials stuff?” He asks in a disbelieving tone, motioning at the bottle, but it’s not like he really doubts it. In the post-Trials world, the stench of rot and death is everywhere, in food, in drinks, in people. Nothing made after everything went to shit could smell this _ clean_.

Rick nods, affirming. “Far as I know,” he says. “At least according to the label. Should be about twelve years old, I reckon. Bottled in the early two thousands.”

“Nice,” Daryl decides, and turns the glass to stare at the amber-colored liquid swirling inside. _ Early two thousands _ sounds like a century ago, to him, and it might’ve been. It’s only been a little over a decade since the world of Before ended, but everything changed. Humanity was decimated. By the New Union’s government estimates, there aren’t more than a few thousand people left in the territory that used to make up the United States of America. But a government exists nowadays, since about two years ago, and a sort-of judicial system headlined by Judge Hawthorne, who directly supervises the Rangers. The Rangers themselves used to be just vagabonds who wouldn’t settle down anywhere and went on killing walkers as civilization was restored to a certain degree around them. Nowadays, they’re considered an organization, though Daryl wouldn’t go that far. He doesn’t even know how many there are besides him. Hasn’t met one in months.

He notices Rick watching him, and he gives the bartender a nod in thanks for the whiskey. He’s almost hesitant to drink a beverage that rare. Feels like it’s being wasted on the likes of him, a vagrant who won’t properly cherish the experience. A whiskey with such vintage is a luxury in this strange new world. It deserves to be tasted by somebody more refined. Somebody much like the man serving it to Daryl.

Like he can sense Daryl’s hesitation, Rick smiles at him, bright and beaming, and pours the same amount to another glass. “Let’s drink together,” he proposes, “to your health. Or, dunno, to many happy returns? Or whatever it is you Rangers drink to.”

“Let’s just drink to new friendships,” Daryl suggests instead, and he finds himself smiling back, genuinely, carelessly. The expression feels foreign on his face. Back when Merle was still alive, Daryl used to smirk at his brother’s dumb, brash jokes, sardonic and mean. He didn’t use to smile or laugh because his life sucked and what reason was there to go around pretending to be happy? He smiles for Rick, though, for the nice bartender with his pretty eyes, and his lovely laughter lines, and his warm voice. He doesn’t think about what it means.

“Friendships, huh? I like that idea,” Rick says and lifts his glass in toast. 

Daryl takes his, tips it in Rick’s direction, then downs it in unhurried sips. With the corner of his eye, he can see Rick watching him as the man drinks, too. He wonders if he’s imagining the appreciation in the way Rick’s pretty eyes seem to roam all over his neck, shoulders and chest. He feels both overdressed and under-dressed at the same time. If he wasn’t certain it’s impossible, he could swear the bartender was checking him out. 

The idea makes his cheeks flush, but it’s easy to hide thanks to the alcohol warming him up internally. Damn, but it’s good whiskey. It’s been too long. Way, way too long. With a sigh, Daryl replaces the glass on the counter-top and then, suddenly daring, unbuttons his shirt down a few buttons to reveal more skin. He wouldn’t normally do that, he wouldn’t show bare any vulnerable parts in front of a stranger, but it helps test if what he saw was wishful thinking or hallucination or whatever. 

Rick licks his lips, and his eyes are still on Daryl, following the movement of Daryl’s fingers on the shirt buttons. It’s real, and it’s unmistakable, the way his eyes darken from his pupils dilating, and the way his breathing quickens. He’s watching Daryl, and he _ likes what he sees_. 

“So, Ranger Dixon,” the bartender says and his voice registers even lower, deeper, slightly hoarse from the alcohol or from something else entirely. “Tell me ‘bout your adventures out there in the wilds.”

Daryl scoffs, rolls his eyes lazily, pretends he’s not blushing as he tries to get over the fact he is being unashamedly ogled by the man who pushes all of his attraction buttons just by standing there on the other side of the counter. He clears his throat and licks his lower lip, itching for a cigarette, itching for anything to do with his hands and his mouth, and _ damn, _ is it a bad thought. 

“Wouldna called ‘em _ adventures_,” he mutters. “Outside actually ain’t that interestin’ anymore. Empty roads, most offa time. Biters ain’t around much these days, not unless ya go far off West, so ‘s mostly just walkin’ round, searchin’ for shit to put on maps ‘n give to communities,” he rolls his shoulders. “Ran into a herd up north though, some few months ago. Big one, few hundred heads.”

“How’d you get out of that?” Rick asks, and somehow, someway, his hand covers Daryl’s on the countertop. His fingers start drawing slow little circles on Daryl’s wrist, just beneath the hem of his sleeve, and it tickles, but it’s nice, too. Makes it hard to concentrate, but Daryl doesn’t want the caress to stop. 

“... killed a few, used the gore to cover my clothes,” he says, looking away from where their hands are touching. He’s not misreading this, is he? This is not something so easily mistaken. Rick really is coming onto him. Flirting - no, he’s not even flirting anymore. It feels like seduction, and fuck if Daryl can resist a man as pretty and as kind. 

“Good thinkin’,” Rick says, approval clear in his tone, and Daryl feels a pang of pleasure at the notion of this man being proud of him. He wonders if the man would be so quick to praise him in bed. A shiver goes down his spine at the thought. There he goes, discovering kinks he didn’t know he had, and he’s not even naked yet.

Rick continues, “Did that a few times, with my group on the road. We got caught in the rain once, it washed walker guts right off of us. Good thing it was near the beginning, and there were plenty of working cars around.”

“Why’d ya settle in Alexandria?” Daryl asks, suddenly curious, because there’s a note of wistfulness in the man’s voice. He sounds a bit like he misses the days of being on the road. Like he’s not that unlike Daryl and the others who chose to stay out there. 

“Got my family,” Rick replies. “Son and daughter. Wife’s been dead a long time, so I’m the only one they have. When the New Union was first established, I wanted to leave here, go and join the Rangers, you know? But friends convinced me my kids needed me more. And they were right,” he adds, smiling with a fondness of a loving father. “Just. Sometimes, I miss how simple it was. Surviving out there.”

“Lonely though,” Daryl points out before he thinks too much about what he’s saying, and the fingers on his wrist pause in their movement. 

Rick looks up at him with the intensity of a storm in summer. “You don’t have to be,” he says in a low voice, and the tone combined with that Southern drawl is completely irresistible. 

“Always been alone,” Daryl mutters, looking down at their hands, still touching. “‘s the kinda life I chose for myself. Ain’t got no right to complain now.”

“People change,” Rick says like it’s indubitable fact. “Just because you made a choice once, it don’t mean you’ve gotta be on your own forever.”

“Can’t stay in one place too long though,” Daryl argues. He knows if he tried to settle down, his wanderlust would make him restless and he’d slowly go crazy. Or he’d run. He’s good at running away from things.

Rick shakes his head gently. “No, you’re right,” he admits, “I didn’t think you could. But you can always have a place to return to. Someone waiting for you to come home.”

“Is that what yer offerin’?” Daryl asks, voice barely audible. He sighs. “You don’t even know me, man, don’t go makin’ me such promises-”

“You know, I get attached real easy,” the bartender interrupts, cheerful, cocky and serious all at once. “I see a person and if they have that _ something_, I don’t need much. Was that way with my late wife, back when we were in high school. Nobody after that, not for, God, decades… But with you? I’m already halfway there, since the moment you came in here lookin’ all pretty with that crossbow slung upon your shoulder.”

Daryl doesn’t know what to do with the confession, taken aback, surprised, questions half-forming that he’s not sure how to ask: _ halfway where_, and _ what does get attached really mean to you_. He’s no good at words, however, so instead he latches onto the least important part of what Rick said and he scoffs, because damn, he wasn’t pretty when he was twenty years old, so he sure as hell isn’t now that he’s pushing fifty. He knows what he looks like. He spent the whole time since the world changed out there, killing shit, and yeah, it got his body looking sort of ripped, but didn’t help his face much. Only last year, he earned himself a new scar across the face in a moment of carelessness which nearly cost him an eye. He’s quite sure he could be used as a boogeyman to scare the kids with, nowadays. Even more so than the walkers.

But Rick keeps looking at him like he thinks Daryl’s something worth admiring. 

“You don’t even realize how gorgeous you are, do you?” He asks, and his fingers resume their slow motions, drawing circles on Daryl’s wrist.

“Ain’t,” Daryl protests, shaking his head. He wants to accuse Rick of being a lightweight who can’t hold his liquor and talks shit under influence. He wants to grab the man by the front of his button-up shirt, pull him close and kiss the hell out of him. He wants to walk out of the bar and into the night, never to return to Alexandria again.

Fuck, he doesn’t know what he wants.

Rick watches him with a fondness written in his features. He seems to be waiting on Daryl to make a move, leaving any decision-making to him. Daryl licks his lips nervously, ignoring his urge to bite on one of his fingers. 

“I ain’t worth it,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Dunno why you’d think I was. You want a relationship, you want this _ gettin’ attached _ an’ shit, man, I ain’t none of that. Come mornin’, I’m just gonna grab shit from the general store, then I’ll go out that fancy gate an’ y’all never gonna see me again. Might get killed soon as I step outside.”

“All the more reason to treasure the time we have,” Rick says. He lifts his hand from Daryl’s wrist to his face, brushes Daryl’s hairy jaw with his thumb. “And maybe when you go out there in the mornin’, it’ll feel better to go with some nice memories? Who knows, perhaps they’ll be so nice, you’re gonna get sentimental and return to Alexandria one day…”

“Yer layin’ it on real thick, cowboy,” Daryl notes, not sure if he should be amused, aroused, terrified, or all three. He settles for a mix between the first two, ignoring the underlying fear as he leans into the man’s touch and lets his eyes slide closed. 

Rick chuckles. “Got somethin’ else real thick I can show you,” he says in a tone that’s far beyond suggestive, it’s so unabashedly seductive in spite of the cheesiness of his pick-up line, and Daryl groans at both the terrible pun and the effect it nevertheless seems to have on his anatomy. He’s been half-hard in his jeans for at least the last hour thanks to overactive imagination, but it’s definitely getting out of the _ half _category fast. 

The bartender’s hand moves to the back of Daryl’s neck and long fingers tangle in his hair, and the man pulls him closer. Daryl inhales audibly at the unexpected motion, and the noise is readily stolen by Rick’s lips covering his own in a tentative kiss. It doesn’t stay chaste for long; as soon as Daryl’s brain catches up with the reality, he parts his lips and licks them, and his tongue touches Rick’s on what seems like an accident until it’s no longer accidental at all. They taste each other and Daryl thinks the whiskey before was nice, but this is better, and maybe whiskey should be served like this all the time, as nothing but an aftertaste in Rick’s mouth, mixed with the minty-spicy-_ something _ flavor seemingly inherent to the man himself. Fuck, but he could so easily get addicted to this. Rick kisses him like he wants to devour, or like he hopes to leave an imprint on Daryl’s soul through the act of licking at the inside of his mouth, and, fuck, he just might. The way Rick’s tongue presses against his, the way Rick’s hands tighten in his hair, Daryl can’t get enough. He wants, and he wants so fiercely, he’s not sure he’s not going crazy.

Rick breaks the kiss for just the brief moment it takes him to hop across the counter, walk to the front door, lock it and cross the room to stand in front of Daryl. His eyes are dark and his already plump lips look even more delicious, pink and wet as they are, and Daryl, still seated on the stool by the counter, wraps his arms around the man’s waist to draw him closer so that Rick stands between his parted legs. He licks his lips again and Rick’s eyes follow the movement of Daryl’s tongue before the man claims his mouth again. Rick’s thigh presses against his crotch and Daryl makes an embarrassing noise into the searing kiss.

Rick takes it as a cue to pull away, but he doesn’t go far this time; he mouths at Daryl’s neck, nips at his jaw, and his hands aren’t shy about their descent down Daryl’s sides. Daryl feels a shudder go through him and he groans, and Rick smiles into his skin and says,

“I’m gonna suck you off right here against the counter,” and he kisses Daryl again without waiting for a reply, swallowing the moan that threatens to rip out from Daryl’s throat. He bites down on Daryl’s eager tongue, but it’s not painful, just teasing, and he chuckles at the way Daryl’s hands tighten as they clutch the back of his shirt.

“Rick,” Daryl says, and he hates how needy he sounds, but. Fuck, it’s been so long since he felt the closeness of another human being, and he can’t. Can’t control it. Can’t control himself at all. It’s embarrassing, to be reduced to a quivering mess for the first time after years of acting all macho, but Rick doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to judge him. He plants gentle kisses down the length of Daryl’s neck as his hands work at unbuttoning Daryl’s shirt, and Daryl realizes with a start that his jacket’s already gone, and-

“You’re beautiful,” Rick whispers into the skin at the juncture between Daryl’s neck and shoulder, and he pushes the fabric of Daryl’s shirt out of the way like it offends him. His lips catch on the edge of the curling scar which goes all the way from Daryl’s shoulder to the small of his back, but he doesn’t comment, just mouths at the raised skin and hums softly. 

That soft sound muffled against his scarred skin makes something inside of Daryl break. “You,” he says, and he pulls Rick’s shirt out of the waistband of the man’s jeans. He doesn’t have the patience to unbutton it, so he grabs it by the lapels and _ rips_, and fuck, he doesn’t care about the buttons flying everywhere, and if Rick does, Daryl’s gonna sew them back on later or something, but right now. Right now, all that Daryl cares about is feeling Rick closer, and so he lets his hands roam over the man’s abdomen and up his chest. Rick shivers and groans, the sound from deep in his throat going straight to Daryl’s cock. 

“Me?” Rick asks in a breathy whisper, willing Daryl to elaborate, and then proceeds to suck a bruise into Daryl’s skin right above the collarbone, where it’s sure as hell going to be visible later. It doesn’t matter because it feels _ good_. Daryl tries but can’t concentrate, he wants to say something witty, but then Rick abruptly drops to his knees in front of him and licks his lips.

“_Fuck_,” Daryl says breathlessly, looking down at the man who begins to swiftly, masterfully open Daryl’s jeans. Rick smirks when he discovers Daryl’s not wearing underwear; it’s hardly practical out in the wastes and _ fuck_, it’s not like it’s on purpose, but it still makes Daryl flush in embarrassment. He opens his mouth to say something to his defense, to explain, but Rick doesn’t wait for the explanation at all and instead wraps his hand around Daryl’s dick to pull it out of the confining jeans. 

“God, even your cock is pretty,” the man says with an obviously appreciative smile, and he leans in to place a gentle kiss on the tip. Daryl bites down on his lower lip to stop himself from cursing, and Rick chuckles, and _ goes to town_. It very soon becomes clear he’s fucking good at this, even Daryl can tell that though nobody had given him head in like, the last fifteen years if not more; he doesn’t try to guess where a small-town bartender who hasn’t _ gotten attached _to anyone since his late wife learned to do this shit during the end of the world, but fuck if he doesn’t appreciate it right now. Rick is as enthusiastic as he is skilled, and he licks wet stripes along the length of Daryl’s cock like he’s savoring some gourmet meal. For a moment, Daryl feels self-conscious because he’s not exactly at his cleanest, there just wasn’t the time nor place to bathe since two nights ago at the river; but then he concludes Rick doesn’t mind when the man swallows the entire length as far as it can go, so far he almost chokes on it as the tip hits the back of his throat.

“My fuckin’ god,” Daryl groans out, and he knows his voice is full of wonder because he can’t _ not _be amazed at the feeling of Rick’s hot mouth over him. Fuck, this isn’t going to last, he’s going to embarrass himself like a damn teenager because Rick’s too good with his tongue and his lips and even his teeth, and with his clever hands playing with what won’t fit into his mouth, and Daryl can’t hold back, he’s wound too fucking tight, he needs… he just needs-

He tries to drown the desperate whine of protest that escapes his throat when Rick suddenly pulls back, but he doesn’t quite succeed. The bartender smiles up at him, licking his reddened, puffy lips.

“Oh, darlin’, I could tease you all through the night,” he informs cheerfully and his voice sounds scratchy.

Daryl growls and tangles his hand in Rick’s hair to pull him up a bit into a frantic kiss. The taste of himself in the man’s mouth is strange and Daryl doesn’t know if it’s sexy or disgusting, but he doesn’t think about it long because Rick’s clever, clever hand finds its way between his legs and nimble fingers wrap around his cock, and their grip is just on the right side of tight. Slowly but relentlessly, in a rhythm completely dissonant from the feverish kiss he’s eagerly responding to, Rick strokes Daryl’s length; and Daryl’s cock is so hard it’s leaking, and at this rate it’s really not going to last long at all, even with such a torturously slow pace. Rick obviously knows what he’s doing, he knows where this is going, and he groans softly into the kiss before he changes things up. He pulls Daryl forward slightly by the hips, so that he barely remains seated on the bar stool, and he cups the curve of Daryl’s ass with his free hand. His other hand releases Daryl’s cock and slides down lower, fondles his balls a moment and then moves further until one blunt fingertip presses gently against the puckered hole, where nobody’s ever touched Daryl before. Rick doesn’t do anything else, just rubs his finger against it, but it’s enough to make Daryl’s entire body jerk.

He’s never done _ that_, with anyone. He never expected to want to, either.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” Rick whispers into his lips, “ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

He licks Daryl’s abused lower lip, then plants an almost-chaste kiss on it before he dives back down, leaning in to take Daryl’s cock into his mouth again. He’s not screwing around this time, he knows exactly what to do with his tongue in order to make Daryl moan helplessly; within moments, he’s got Daryl writhing, all but begging in almost incoherent whimpers. It’s impossible to follow what he’s doing with any sort of rational thought, and Daryl fights hard to concentrate on finding some semblance of balance and not falling off the stool. He grabs the counter behind his back in an attempt to steady himself. All the while, he’s making noises he’d never admit to under pain of death, and he bites on his lip again to silence them as Rick swallows around him and hums, the vibration doing something to Daryl’s fucking _ brain_.

“Please, Rick,” Daryl begs shamelessly - shamefully - he doesn’t even know, and Rick responds by taking him in even deeper, and then he’s choking on Daryl’s cock, but he’s moaning softly as he does and he won’t pull back, and Daryl feels like there are stars exploding behind his eyelids. Rick presses the tip of his finger _ there_, a gentle, barely-there pressure, a promise of something else, some _ time _ else, and then, right then that’s enough to push Daryl over the edge. He doesn’t even get the chance to warn Rick, one second and he’s there, coming hard and hot, loud and unrestrained in his orgasm. 

It takes Daryl longer than he could’ve expected to come down, but when he does, he opens his eyes to the sight of Rick licking his lips with a satisfied smile, like a cat who got the bird. The bartender tucks Daryl’s softening cock back into his jeans and closes them, but not before placing the softest little kiss on Daryl’s thigh. 

“What about,” Daryl says, clears his throat and tries again. “Should I,” he motions vaguely towards Rick’s midsection. 

The man chuckles. “No need. You’re so responsive, it’s really sexy, you know that? Made me come in my pants like a damn schoolboy,” he admits, bashfulness and amusement showing in his face in equal measures. He picks himself up from the floor, adjusts his pants - and if Daryl looks very closely, he can see a wet patch at the front of Rick’s blue jeans. It makes him feel better about coming so soon, and about not reciprocating. Though he would’ve liked to touch, too. Maybe next time… if there ever is a next time, that is.

“Another round?” Rick asks, pushing the bottle of whiskey into Daryl’s field of vision to indicate he doesn’t mean a second round of sex; at least not _just yet_. He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that his shirt is open, its front ruined beyond repair. He's grinning as he sets a new glass in front of Daryl; apparently, the previous one fell and shattered, though Daryl couldn't on the life of him tell when it happened.

He straightens himself on the stool, fastening his jeans as discreetly as he can. He nods and grunts gratefully when Rick pours the whiskey and then slides the glass right into his waiting hand. 

“To new friendships,” the bartender toasts cheerfully, clinking his own glass against Daryl’s. His lips are still red and slightly swollen, and it's pretty obvious even though his beard obscures them somewhat.

They drink and, as the whiskey burns its way down Daryl’s throat, he decides he’s probably going to return to Alexandria sooner rather than later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is fast approaching. Daryl heads to Alexandria to wait it out, but is Rick still waiting for him after so long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is... no smut in this chapter??? Yeah, the story decided to grow some plot.  
Please mind you, it's mostly shameless indulgence on my side: I love post-apocalyptic things. I love coming up with post-apo worlds, survival strategies and stuff like that. Which is why this story even exists in the first place... Also, you wouldn't believe how much time I always have to spend with a map of the US when I write TWD stuff. Thank God for Google maps!

Daryl hasn’t had the opportunity to take a hot shower in… months, must be. The last time must’ve been in that shopping mall he found in Baltimore, after he killed those Whisperer guys. A bunch of freaks, the lot of them, but good fighters. Daryl spent a good portion of the past year hunting them down all over the place. 

When he took the assignment from a runner in upstate New York, he didn’t expect it would take so damn long to finish the job. On paper, the Whisperers looked like some sort of a cult with a sparse following; they were supposed to dwell somewhere between DC and Maryland. Unfortunately, like with many assignments from the HQ, this proved to be about as inaccurate an assumption as saying the biters smell like violets. Turns out, the information from the runner was outdated as fuck, and the Whisperers grew in numbers over the fuck-knows how many months since it was obtained. Spread all over the East Coast like some particularly nasty roaches, attacking peaceful communities and claiming their territories. What was especially disturbing about this cult was that they made face masks out of biter skins and walked among the dead, forming enormous herds which they somehow directed to go where they wanted. Creepy as fuck.

Supposedly, Daryl wasn’t the only Ranger who went after them, but he didn’t meet anyone else during this particular hunt. He found signs of others: a cleared area here and there, burned remains of corpses in mass graves, notes pinned to trees in some locations. He stumbled upon a nice supply cache in a small, deserted town in New Jersey; there was a note from the last Ranger who was there, a guy called Jesus who wished whoever happened on the cache good luck in future travels. 

It was probably the only sort-of interaction Daryl had with another living person in the entire eleven months he spent hunting the Whisperers. Until now; he looks down at the runner in front of him, a young woman who’s maybe in her twenties, and he chuckles when her face scrunches up in disgust at the stench of walker guts covering him head to toe. His appearance is a stark contrast against the blonde chick’s cleanliness and the smell of lavender on her undoubtedly freshly washed clothes.

“Ain’t seen ya out here before,” he says with barely contained amusement. “Must be new?”

“Not really,” she replies, taking a step back in what she probably thinks is a discrete movement. It’s not, but Daryl can forgive her. “I just never had a chance to go outside DC before. My name’s Beth.”

“Pleasure,” Daryl says, trying to tone down on the sarcasm. DC girl doesn’t deserve it. It’s not her fault that in all this time, she was lucky enough to have been sheltered from the real world. In fact, Daryl is sort of happy for her. The more kids are spared from the true horrors of the Trials, the better for the world that will come after. 

“So, any messages?” He asks, all down to business.

“Just the reminder that winter is close, and all Rangers should find shelter in the nearest settlements,” Beth says quickly. “Also, Judge Hawthorne is pleased with the results of the hunt for the Whisperers. Their leaders have been apprehended and are awaiting trial. You are free to pursue other opportunities or await another assignment.”

“Thank fuck,” Daryl mutters. If he had to track down another herd and pick off every walking corpse one by one in hopes of hitting a Whisperer under a mask, he’d likely go crazy and start wearing walker skins as a fashion accessory, too. 

It’s been a tiring year. He sort of misses the early years of the Trials; the world used to be much more dangerous than it is now, but at least he was free to do whatever he pleased. Sure, he mostly did the same things he does as a Ranger fulfilling Judge Hawthorne’s orders under the Vice-President’s supervision, but at least he was the one making his own choices. 

Oh, well. Times change, civilizations rise on the remains of a world that used to be. He’s had a hand in the creation of this new order, too, and he signed up for this life all by himself, so he really has no room to complain. It’s not like the Vice-President went out of his way to recruit Rangers from all over. They all came to DC of their own accord and took their oaths from Judge Hawthorne.

“If you don’t have anywhere to spend the winter, I can escort you back to the rendezvous point. A car will pick us up and take us to DC,” Beth offers in her kind voice that seems so out of place in the world as it is now. 

“Nah, I have a place,” Daryl assures her. 

He doesn’t, not really, but… maybe, just maybe, he can have one. He’s only a short journey away from here to a certain small town in Virginia. A few days if he doesn’t encounter any obstacles. Daryl thinks if he sets out immediately, he can likely get there before the first snow blocks the roads. 

Of course, there’s no guarantee that the pretty bartender still waits for him. It’s been over a year, it’s more than likely that Rick doesn’t even remember him. Hell, the man might not even live there anymore. But that’s okay. Every town has an inn, a hostel, a place where a traveler might rest for a few days or even weeks. Alexandria, if Daryl remembers correctly, had a few guest rooms above the general store. He could stay there, if his bartender isn’t an option.

Or he can find an abandoned building outside the walls, close enough to be able to resupply if needed, but not within the town boundaries. That’s fine too.

“Are you sure?” Beth asks. Daryl is a bit surprised to note that she seems worried. It’s weird for a stranger to worry about his well-being. It’s true Rangers are useful and treated with respect in general, but Daryl’s not used to people being nice to him specifically. Over the last months, the only other living humans he met were trying to kill him, and before that, the runners he met basically treated him like a tool. Which he supposes is about right; that’s what Rangers are all about these days. Performing tasks, like trick dogs or, well, tools.

So it’s strange for little Beth here to worry about Daryl’s future.

“We have places for Rangers,” the young woman says softly.

Daryl shakes his head. “I’m gonna be fine,” he promises. 

He remembers his first winter after Merle died; he made a conscious effort back then to avoid the runners, and there weren’t that many of those back in the early days of the new order. The notice about the oncoming winter never reached Daryl, and he missed the warning signs, lost in his grief and in the unfamiliar wasteland plains of Missouri, somewhere south of the Ozarks. It had been the worst winter in the post-Trials history, and Daryl was trapped in the middle of nothing when a snowstorm hit. He barely survived. Another runner, a guy named Aaron, found him in early February, feverish and frostbitten, and got him help. Bunkered up with him in an old military outpost until Daryl got better. They got used to each other’s company, so Aaron decided to stay with Daryl for a while afterwards. Of course, eventually, they each got fed up with the other’s different approach to life and went their separate ways. 

Daryl never let winter surprise him again after that. He also never met Aaron again, but that’s just the way it goes. 

Beth heads out for her pick-up, leaving Daryl with a newsletter from the DC and a small sachet of supplies - a solid food ration, a few packets of trail mix, two energy drinks, a bottle of painkillers, and two rolls of good old duct tape. Pretty standard: runners aren’t supply lines, they only carry small amounts to not become easy prey for potential vagrants that don’t know how to live in society, but they usually distribute some goods among Rangers to make sure they don’t keel over until the next town. 

Daryl especially appreciates the trail mix. It’s got raisins or dried cranberry, whichever’s in stock at the sorting center, and he’s always had a sweet tooth. 

Once Beth disappears from his line of vision, Daryl consults the map he’s got in the back pocket of his tattered jeans. He’s near the interstate, only a mile or so from the exit that will take him directly to Alexandria - if the roads haven’t become blocked at some point over the last year or so. No point thinking about obstacles right now; he’ll face them if or when they arise.  
With that mindset, Daryl heads back to the place that’s currently the closest thing he has to a home. It’s a bit sad if he thinks about it: he’s more fond of a dimly-lit bar in a small, insignificant town, than he is of any other place he knows. Although, to be fair, he doesn’t much care about the bar itself. It’s the bartender who makes him so nostalgic about it: the pretty, friendly man who told him, over a year ago, that he’d always await Daryl’s return. He also gave Daryl the most fantastic blowjob of his life, but that… well, that’s not why Daryl misses him.

Because he does miss that man, Daryl admits to himself as he sets out south. It’s a foreign feeling, missing someone; he didn’t miss Aaron when they separated years ago. He didn’t miss Merle’s exhausting presence, not really, not after the initial shock of his brother’s death wore off. But he honestly misses Rick, the blue-eyed bartender from a town he randomly stumbled upon one time. During his Whisperer hunt, Daryl found himself mourning the fact the communication network from the old world is lost; in slower moments, when he had to hide from a herd or wait through a heavy rainfall in the mountains, he wished there was still a way to send a text. He wouldn’t have texted anything spectacular, neither, just a _ what’s up _ or a _ horrible weather here, _ or even an _ I saw a fox today, not sure which one of us was more surprised. _No sentimental bullshit, because that’s not what he’s into, that’s not the kinda man he is. Just, well, normal stuff. He thinks, more than the sexual stuff he did with Rick that one night a long time ago, he misses the easy way the two of them communicated. It had never been that easy before Rick. 

Hell, Aaron told Daryl he was impossible to talk to more than once. Meant it, too. But Rick? Maybe it was somehow connected to the man’s occupation - bartenders back in the day had the reputation of being friendly faces and all, - but he was so easy for Daryl to open up to. He didn’t seem to judge Daryl for his choices, and he was able to tell when Daryl didn’t want to talk about something. He was as comfortable sitting there and being silent, and even then it was like they were still having a conversation: one carried out with soft touches, barely-there gestures and gentle eyes. Nobody else knew Daryl’s meaning from just a single glance, nobody could tell his mood from the way his shoulders hunched. Rick learned his tells from just one night spent together.

Daryl isn’t a romantic. He knows good things hardly happen to men like him: battle-hardened, rough around the edges, with some traumas which existed long before the world went to shit. There’s grime layered all over his soul, thicker and harder to scrub away than the dirt covering his body. Memories of a childhood darker than the first months of the Trials, nightmares that still keep him up some nights with phantom pains across his back, flinching away from ghostly hands of a man long dead. Daryl isn’t a believer in happy endings, or karmic balance, or anything else, really. He doesn’t think his life will get significantly prettier at one point just because he already went through so much and survived. Nah; that sort of shit only happens in fairy tales. Men like him, they keep on keeping on. Toughen up and go on another day, another week, another month, then year, then decade. They don’t fall in love, and they certainly don’t meet their soulmates hidden away in a town that looks like it never had to see a herd up close.

But for a moment there, walking down the road towards Alexandria, Daryl thinks how nice it would be, and he lets himself contemplate it: what would a happy ending look like, for a Ranger? No, not for a Ranger. For him. Specifically for him. 

He’s not surprised that in his mind, the happy ending looks very much like a pretty bartender with gentle hands and laughter lines crinkling the corners of his blue eyes.

*

In the end, the journey takes a few days longer than anticipated. Daryl has to change his course when it turns out the bridge he remembered from the last time is no longer there. Maybe the heavy rains last summer caused the river to rise and the bridge was washed away; regardless of the cause, the fact remains that the Potomac is too wide there to safely cross on foot. There are no boats conveniently scattered about the shore, unfortunately, so Daryl is forced to find another way to get to the other side. He consults his map and finds a few other potential crossings, none of them too far away; after a short debate with himself, Daryl chooses the bridge a little to the west and resumes his steady march.

The bridge is not washed away, but it doesn’t seem very stable neither. A part of it on the other shore is collapsed, and Daryl can see a group of walkers milling about. Eight, maybe ten; nothing to cause too much trouble normally, but Daryl knows from experience that a small herd like this could, in fact, be only part-dead. As in, he’s pretty sure not all of the Whisperers got the memo, and some of them may still be out and about. 

He’d take them out anyway if he wasn’t almost out of crossbow bolts. He’d rather not waste them now that he’s down to only a dozen or so; sure, he has his trusty knives, but he prefers to avoid getting into melee range. That’s also because of the Whisperers. Damn sons of bitches really got to him, what with their hiding among the biters and striking when he least expected. Nothing worse than getting crowded into a room with six geeks and only then realizing two of them were actually weapon-wielding, strategically-thinking, _ alive _cultists.

So Daryl passes on that bridge and heads further west, and the detour makes him lose precious time. The next crossing he finds is empty and, miraculously, whole, so at least he finally manages to cross the river, but that doesn’t mean his troubles are over. He has to double back, because from where he ends up, he doesn’t see himself reaching Alexandria in a timely manner. Not unless he goes through the woods, and that’s not a good idea in early January. Not when the snow can come at any moment; and that’s only a matter of time, Daryl can tell. There’s frost on the ground in the mornings now, and the layers of clothing he’s wearing begin to not be enough.

At least the road he ends up taking is completely deserted. He doesn’t meet a single biter on the way, and when he looks closely, Daryl can also see no heavy tracks more recent than from before a couple weeks past. It’s both a good thing and a bad one; good because it means he’s alone out here, and alone means safe in his world. Bad, because he hasn’t noticed a single deer track or any clue of big game in the area, and small game tend to hide away deeper in the woods in winter months. So, he can’t really hunt. 

It becomes a problem on the sixth day of his journey. In the early morning, the sky darkens, and after a few hours of foreshadowing, the clouds finally tear open to vomit heaps and heaps of snow. Daryl walks for as long as he can in the heavy snowfall, but eventually, it becomes impossible to see even the road directly ahead. His map is useless for this, it’s just a pre-Trials map of interstate highways, it hasn’t got any shelter markers. 

_ Can’t die out here, _Daryl tells himself and, despite his better judgement, takes the nearest turn right, leading straight into the forest. 

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for: a cabin, maybe, or even an abandoned camp. A cave, for God’s sake. Any sort of roof would do, even a temporary one, just so he can wait out the snow storm. For the first couple of minutes, however, all he can see are trees. Trees, and snowflakes, and more trees, and even more fucking snowflakes. But eventually, his fortune changes, and Daryl happens upon a barn.

For it’s weird location, the building is in a relatively good shape. The walls are all standing, the roof is present, and even if it’s leaky, that’s really the least of Daryl’s problems. The door can be blocked by a plank inserted into metal holders which seem to be a new-ish addition: they’re not rusted through, and even though they’re not shiny, they appear to be very sturdy. Which means the place has been used recently, and Daryl quickly checks the interior for any hostile inhabitants, but he calms down considerably when he makes sure there aren’t any.

Instead, he finds a stockpile of wood, a blanket, and a packet of hardtack. There’s no note, but Daryl still assumes the supplies were left here by another Ranger who must’ve been passing through: the wrapping of the ration bears the official seal of the Quartermaster. It could’ve been some merchant’s or another travellers, but in Daryl’s experience, Rangers are the most likely to leave supplies for those who may come after. 

He spends the whole day and night in the barn. He gets a fire going, changes into his less-damp clothes from his backpack and spreads the wet stuff to dry it as much as possible with just a simple campfire. He wraps himself in the blanket and tries to rest. 

It’s not easy, though, because the biting cold wind still finds its way into the barn, howling underneath the roof, chilling Daryl to the bone. For once, he wishes he accepted Beth’s offer to go to DC. He should’ve gone there. Spent the winter in a civilized place. Stocked up on new clothes, more bolts for his bow. Then he could’ve just headed to Alexandria in March or something. But no; he got too caught up in daydreams about blue eyes and soulmates, and now he’s going to freeze to death in a barn less than a day’s worth of distance away from his destination. 

Typical Dixon luck.

_ At least this way, there ain’t no disappointment, _ he thinks to himself, bitterly. _ Woulda been awkward if I got there all hopeful and shit, and Rick’s gotten married, or died, or somethin’. Least this way, I ain’t gonna find out. _

It’s not much of a comfort, but Daryl doesn’t have the energy for thinking happy thoughts right now. He’s cold, he’s tired. Hungry, too. The hardtack barely helps: it tastes like nothing in particular and leaves his mouth dry, but he’s not too happy about going outside to pick up some snow he could boil over the fire with some mint leaves. He does, eventually, just to fill his stomach with something that isn’t stale breadcrumbs. The tea turns out to be one of his best ideas: it warms him up inside, and the biscuits, when properly soaked, appear to even have some semblance of a sweet taste. 

The snowfall lets up on the second day, and Daryl gathers his stuff, telling himself he’s only got a few more miles to cross. No sense sitting here in the dark alone when he can get to Alexandria with just one last effort. So he heads out into the snow-covered forest, and he prays to whatever deity is listening that he doesn’t get lost.

He hasn’t travelled the roads in Virginia in winter before, and at first, he’s confused which way he’s supposed to be going. With the cover of snow, every direction looks about the same. Daryl’s own tracks from before are long gone, and it’s difficult to tell which way is where with the sun behind thick clouds. For a moment there, Daryl thinks this is it. He’s gonna die here, within a few hours’ walking distance from his dream of Rick’s welcoming embrace.

And then he sees the road sign. 

By some miracle, it’s not completely obscured. It’s not one of the pre-Trials signs that used to mark the highway; no, it’s hand-painted, possibly with a spray can, and the letters are dark blue and wobbly on the crinkled metal sheet. 

_ Alexandria, 3.5 miles, _it reads, and there’s a damn arrow pointing the way. 

“Thank fuck,” Daryl mutters under his breath, and he forces his protesting muscles to move. _ One last effort, _ he convinces himself. _ Gonna be worth it. _

His pace isn’t impressive. Treading through the snow, exhausted, it takes more than two hours before Daryl finally finds himself nearing the familiar entrance gate to the small walled town. As he reaches the gate and rings the bell at the guard post, Daryl feels a wave of relief flooding him, causing him to shiver; or maybe it’s the hypothermia. He’s not sure. Either way, he’s gotten here in the end. 

“Late in the season for a Ranger,” the guard remarks, letting him in. “Come in, friend. Welcome to Alexandria.”

“Lookin’ for Rick,” Daryl mutters, and winces inwardly. There goes subtlety. Of course he had to blurt it out first thing. 

“Ah, yes, he mentioned a Ranger friend. Daryl, are you?” The guard asks, smiling. He turns to someone inside the guard post, says, “I’ll just take this guy to Rick’s place, okay?” - and then faces Daryl again.

“Come on, man,” he says, “you look ready to keel over. Best I get you into somewhere warm.”

“Can go rent a room. Don’t wanna intrude,” Daryl protests meekly.

The guard rolls his eyes, and he does it in such an exaggerated manner, Daryl can clearly see it even though the man’s face is almost entirely hidden behind a fur-lined hood. 

“Yeah, if you think I’ll risk getting skinned, think again. Rick would be pissed if I took you anywhere but his place, so come on, follow me.”

Faced with such reasoning, Daryl can’t do anything else but let himself be led to the residential area. The last time he was here, he didn’t have the opportunity to examine the town too closely because he arrived when it was already dark. Now, the place seems to him to be rather bright and lively; the streets are cleared and sprinkled with sand, and there are children running around, playing in the snow. A blond woman stands on the porch, watching over a couple of boys, and when she notices Daryl, she smiles and waves in greeting. In front of another house, a child and a young man are building a snowman. 

That’s the house the guard is leading him to, Daryl realizes.

“Hey Carl, hi Judy,” the guard greets, “your dad home?”

“Yeah,” the young man replies, nodding. “He said, and I quote, _ Fuck work, it’s Christmas. _ And he kept ignoring me when I pointed out Christmas was _ last year. _”

“Language,” the child accompanying him says. From the voice and the name - Judy - Daryl recognizes she must be a girl. Hard to tell: she’s wrapped up in thick layers to keep her warm, and nobody pays much attention to the division of colors between specific genders nowadays, so there’s no clue about that in her clothes. 

“Dad doesn’t like it when we swear,” the girl explains, looking up at Daryl. Her dark eyes widen when they take the man in, frozen gore on his coat, blue lips from the cold, crossbow on his back and all. “Are you a Ranger, sir?” She asks, excited at the prospect of meeting somebody like him. “I’m gonna be a Ranger too, when I grow up!”

Daryl wants to say how he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but before he can so much as open his mouth, the door of the house opens and - there he is. Almost the same as Daryl remembers him. There might be a few more gray hairs in his beard than the last time, and a few more wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when his pretty lips stretch around a wide smile, but other than that, he hasn’t changed much.

Rick looks at him, and Daryl looks back, and it’s almost like he never left at all. 

“Come on inside, you’re damn near frozen to death,” the man calls and draws Daryl in by the arm, giving a quick nod to the guard who brought him. 

“Need help, dad?” The young man - Carl - asks, but Rick shakes his head. 

“Nah, you just take care of your sister for me,” he says, and then closes the door and leads Daryl inside the house.

It’s something out of a different time, Rick’s house. After placing his crossbow, boots and backpack on the floor by the entrance, Daryl can’t help but squint suspiciously at the floral wallpaper in the hall, the soft rug that’s quickly getting ruined under his feet, the wire-framed mirror on the wall. He’s seen posh neighborhoods out there, houses collapsing under their own weight, decaying walls and the musty stench of old rot; this here looks like a damn museum of the old world. A suburban little home. Only thing missing is a cute blonde housewife in a sundress. 

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Rick says, and motions to the bathroom. Daryl obediently goes in, and is a bit surprised when Rick follows him inside. He’s even more surprised to feel the man’s hands on himself, immediately going for the clasps and fastenings of his clothes.

“Woah, eager ain’cha,” he mutters.

Rick rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, the sight of you shivering and going almost blue from the cold has me all hot and bothered,” he quips. He helps Daryl out of the completely soaked poncho and startles at the numerous pieces of string and rope tied all over the length of his forearms.

“Always good to have some rope on ya,” Daryl mutters in explanation. 

Rick chuckles. “Kinky,” he says, and moves on to the challenge of untying the knots. It takes him a longer while, and Daryl isn’t very helpful with his clumsy, frostbitten fingers. When he’s done, throws the last of the strings on a pile in the corner, and gives Daryl a half-hearted glare.

“I’ll buy you some proper rope,” he says. “Also, just so you know, I’m burning your clothes as soon as you’re tucked in. It’s a miracle they haven’t fallen off by themselves.”

Daryl frowns. “Not the vest,” he protests with more vehemence than he thought he was capable of. He can’t help but be fond of the leather vest with angel wings. It’s a memento, sort of, the last gift Merle ever bought him before the world ended. A birthday gift, purchased with Merle’s first paycheck from the first legitimate job he took after returning from Iraq. Who knows, maybe if the dead never started walking, Merle would’ve actually gone on being a decent person? Not a model citizen, Merle was too much of a rebel at heart to accept all the rules, but, hell, maybe he could’ve kept out of prison at least.

“Fine, I’ll have the vest cleaned,” Rick concedes, and helps Daryl out of the leather garment which he then discards on a separate pile, with the poncho. It’s a good poncho, almost new. Daryl bought it in a settlement in Michigan two falls ago. Made of wool, hand-spun and woven by the locals, it cost a hefty price, but it was worth it. If not for the heavy snowfall, Daryl supposes he could’ve gone on the whole winter without getting too cold.

It’s awkward, being undressed like a helpless babe, but Rick doesn’t seem to mind doing it for Daryl. He all but tears off his undershirt that falls apart in his grip, and he makes no mention of the new scars across Daryl’s torso. Then he drops to his knees to unbutton Daryl’s jeans and remove the ropes and strips of fabric tied at the ankles. He doesn’t comment, even if he is slightly annoyed by them; Daryl actually has a reasonable explanation for those - they keep the fabric closer to his skin, therefore making it harder to grab, - but he doesn’t volunteer it and Rick doesn’t ask. He works methodically, throwing the dirty rags and pieces of string onto the _ disposal _pile. Eventually he just huffs when one of the knots proves too complex to untie; he stands back up, turns towards a shelf, grabs a pair of scissors and leans down to simply cut through all of the remaining obstacles in one clear snip. 

“There,” he says to himself, satisfied, and Daryl shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. His teeth are chattering now, and he feels like his body is convulsing with the tremors running down his spine. He knows it’s warm inside the bathroom, but he doesn’t actually feel it. 

Not until Rick pulls down his jeans along with the underwear, at least; a fraction of warmth finds his way to his face then alright. Shit, he shouldn’t be blushing. Rick isn’t interested in looking at his junk, especially now at its least impressive state. He only wants to make sure Daryl is okay, and there’s no room for embarrassment in that. But he can’t really help it. 

“I almost forgot how adorable you are,” Rick says, looking up and noticing the blush spreading on Daryl’s pale cheeks. “Okay, leg up. Now the other. Good boy,” he praises when Daryl steps out of the damp jeans. He examines the threadbare denim for a moment, then deems it unsalvageable and throws it on the pile with stuff to get rid of. Once that’s done, he straightens and casts a quick, appraising look all over Daryl’s body, checking him out head to toe. 

“No injuries I should know about?” He asks, reaching behind Daryl to the bathtub. He plugs it and turns on the water, but then he directs Daryl into the shower stall instead. 

“Nothin’ life-threatenin’,” Daryl replies. He lets himself be manhandled. What else is he supposed to do? It’s weird though. He’s never had anybody take care of him like this. Maybe his mother when he was a toddler and she wasn’t addicted to booze yet, but he doesn’t really remember that. 

“Good,” Rick says. He quickly strips down to his underwear and steps into the shower with Daryl, then turns on the water. The spray hits Daryl’s back and he hisses; the water is scorching hot, or at least it is to him, and it’s almost painful when it flows down his body.

“Shhhh,” Rick murmurs and wraps one arm around Daryl’s waist. He doesn’t flinch away when Daryl immediately steps into his embrace, instinctively seeking protection from the painful assault. He shivers, but holds Daryl close, and he reaches for the shower head with his free hand.

“Gonna rinse the dirt off you quickly, okay?” He says softly, letting go of Daryl’s waist to run a hand through his hair. He directs the water spray on Daryl’s shoulder, lets his hand follow the currents flowing downwards; he massages warmth into Daryl’s skin, and Daryl slowly feels sensation return to his stiff limbs. He’s still trembling all over, but he no longer feels like a human icicle, so there’s an improvement. He even manages to grab a container off the shell inside the stall, labelled _ shower gel _in elegant handwriting. 

“Want me to leave you to it?” Rick asks. 

Daryl shakes his head. “May need the help,” he admits. He wouldn’t say this to anybody else, but he doesn’t really mind being vulnerable with Rick. He trusts the man not to hurt him, and Rick rewards that trust by not taking advantage; he just helps Daryl lather and rinse, providing support when it proves difficult to continue to stand on his own. He washes Daryl’s hair for him, and steps out from the stall to turn off the water in the tub before it overflows. 

He smiles. “Let’s get you to the tub, okay? You can soak a bit, seep some warmth into your bones,” he suggests, and Daryl nods weakly. To be completely honest, right now, he’d do anything Rick’s asking him to. He leans on the man to try and walk towards the tub on his own, but it still ends up with Rick half-carrying him. He’s strong, deceptively so with his lean build, and Daryl finds himself shivering for an entirely different reason than the cold. He lets out a drawn-out sigh of pleasure-laced relief when he submerges himself in the tub. The water in the bath is less hot than the shower - or is it that his body has restored proper blood circulation and can now process temperatures correctly? Daryl can’t really tell.

What he can tell is that this is the closest he’s been to heaven in a very long time.

“Don’t fall asleep, love,” Rick says softly. “I’ll leave you for a few minutes to put something in the stove. You must be starving.”

“Mmm,” Daryl replies in a hum. “Don’cha worry yer pretty head, sheriff. Survived ten years out there, yeah? I ain’t gonna drown in a bathtub,” he assures drowsily. 

Rick chuckles and leans down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll be right back,” he promises and walks away, but he doesn’t fully close the door like he hopes to be able to peek inside the bathroom to check on Daryl any time. It’s okay; Daryl doesn’t mind. He leans against the back of the tub and sighs. The warmth of the water does wonders for his stiff joints and the knotted muscles all over his tired body. He doesn’t doze off, but there is a dreamy sort of haze around his mind that even persists when Rick returns to fetch him.

Rick towels him off and helps him into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that’s too large even for broad shoulders; Rick also provides a pair of thick woolen socks that seem a bit lumpy and must be handmade. 

“Sorry, they’re not very pretty, but they do their job,” the man promises when Daryl squints at the socks, more curious than judgmental. “My daughter made them, but she’s not very good at it yet.”

“They’s cool,” Daryl assures him, smiling. The socks are soft and keep his feet warm - what else could he ask for?

“C’mon then, I’ve got an amazing potato casserole heating up for you.”

Daryl follows Rick through the house to the kitchen where he is fed an admittedly amazing casserole. He hasn’t had food this good in… hell, ever? Definitely not before the Trials, and after? Nah, he doesn’t think so. People respect Rangers, sure, but they rarely go so far as to invite them in and feed them at their own tables, so Daryl’s pretty much used to hardtack, venison jerky and trail mix. A home-made dinner? That’s a luxury he never really knew he missed, because you can’t really miss something you never had.

Even so, he eats about half the offered portion before he’s full. His stomach must’ve shrunk over the last few months in the wastelands. He barely had time to think about eating when he was running after the Whisperers, after all. 

“I’ll just put it into the fridge,” Rick says when he notices Daryl shuffling the food about his plate. “I can reheat it for you when you’re ready. Or make you something else if you’re not a fan of casseroles,” he jokes good-naturedly.

Daryl chuckles. “Oh, I’m a fan,” he reassures. “Just, not used to eatin’ to my heart’s content, ya know. Not many Michelin star restaurants out there in the wastes.”

Rick scoffs. “Flatterer. My cooking ain’t that good,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Everythin’ abou’cha is good,” Daryl tells him simply. 

The man looks at him, warmth in his blue eyes, crinkles around their corners as he smiles. He closes the distance between them and touches Daryl’s arm, gently, like he’s giving Daryl a choice in case he wants to pull away.

Daryl doesn’t want to.

“I missed you,” Rick says on a soft exhale. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve only known you for one night, and still I missed you all the time you were gone.”

“Missed ya too,” Daryl mutters. He didn’t think he’d be able to say it out loud, but here it is, a whisper between breaths.

Rick leans in and presses his lips to Daryl’s in a fleeting, barely there kiss so unlike what they shared that night in the bar over a year ago. That was about passion and release and wanting to feel good. This? It’s about something else. Something more.

Daryl doesn’t dare call it _ love, _ not yet. But he sleeps in Rick’s bed that night, wrapped in thick blankets and strong arms, and he wakes up to warm breath on his neck, and then he falls asleep the same way another night and wakes up the same way another morning. He spends the days playing with a ten-year old girl who seems to adore him, and telling stories of the wastelands to a young man who seems to know all about him: Rick’s kids. Once he recovers from the nasty cold which bothers him for a few days after his arrival, he joins the watch duty roster like everyone else, and he makes himself useful around the town. He learns how to make pancakes - _ fuck, _but it’s surreal. A few weeks ago, he was killing biters and hunting people wearing biter masks. He was eating tree bark. He had layers of duct tape wrapped around his shirt sleeves and pant legs for the best makeshift anti-biter armor one could have out there. And now?

Nowadays, he’s wearing new jeans and flannel shirts, clothes made specifically for him by Eric, the local tailor; he's got no need for armor whatsoever. Most days, he doesn’t carry a weapon other than one concealed knife because there’s just no need. He helps out in the bar sometimes, though he notices there’s not much going on in terms of traffic there. He has mittens for when he wants to go outside: Judith made them for him, and they’re clumpy, mismatched and sort of girly, but still. He’s got his own room if he wants to be alone, but most of the time, he doesn’t, so it only serves as storage space for equipment old and new. The other townspeople have been coming up, some to donate old but perfectly usable pieces of gear, others to simply express their gratitude for what Daryl’s been doing out in the wastes. He’s got friends now. Plural. It’s so weird.

Weirdest of all, he’s spending his mornings making pancakes in a small kitchen, debating on whether to feed the kids first and then carry a tray to the bedroom so he and Rick can have breakfast in bed, or to call the whole family down to the dining room and watch them all eat together. Sometimes, he chooses the latter option. More often, the former, and then the pancakes and hot chocolate are both rather cold before he and Rick get to their meal.

And, best of all… Daryl’s strangely alright with all of it. Maybe he’s getting old, or maybe he just never knew what he wanted, but the quiet life in Rick’s little house, in Rick’s little town, with Rick’s little family - it’s good, to him. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn’t look forward to spring when he’ll go back to the life of a lone Ranger out in the ruins of the old world. He’s glad it’s only the end of January, and the really cold days are yet ahead of them.

Daryl hopes this winter will last a while longer; but when it inevitably ends, when he gathers his weapons and goes out there for his next assignment, he knows there’ll be a place for him to come back to next year: he knows Rick will still be waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when the final chapter will be posted, but definitely sometime this year ;)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to hit me up on tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes~


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